I would argue, sir, that replicating the use of a word -- not because of some poor impulse to rhyme, but because it contributes to the architecture of the poem in some luminous way -- is a long-proven and accepted poetic device. "Knocking on my chamber door", and "Bells, bells, bells" spring immediately to mind. As for the desire for multiple stanzas, while this would not be a difficult request to satisfy, I only write on demand for those who give money to the Mudcat, or to me.

I prefer the Petrachian sonnet form or, failing that, the Shakespearian. In point of fact, I think that the internal rhyme schemes of Old Irish (Celtic) and Old Norse are quite comme il faut, and the modern propensity to use only end rhymes inhibits poetic development and create boredom for the reader/reciter.

I would hold, sir, that the repetition of the repeated rhyme is what gives it its legitimacy.

"Repetition of a sound, syllable, word, phrase, line, stanza, or metrical pattern is a basic unifying device in all poetry. It may reinforce, supplement, or even substitute for meter, the other chief controlling factor in the arrangement of words into poetry. Primitive religious chants from all cultures show repetition developing into cadence and song, with parallelism and repetition still constituting, most frequently as anaphora, an important part in the sophisticated and subtle rhetoric of contemporary liturgies (e.g., the Beatitudes). Frequently also, the exact repetition of words in the same metrical pattern at regular intervals forms a refrain, which serves to set off or divide narrative into segments, as in ballads, or, in Iyric poetry, to indicate shifts or developments of emotion. Such repetitions may serve as commentary, a static point against which the rest of the poem develops, or it may be simply a pleasing sound pattern to fill out a form ("hey downe adowne"). As a unifying device, independent of conventional metrics, repetition is found extensively in free verse, where parallelism (repetition of a grammar pattern) reinforced by the recurrence of actual words and phrases governs the rhythm which helps to distinguish free verse from prose (e.g., Walt Whitman, "I Hear America Singing"; Carl Sandburg, Chicago, The People Yes; Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology). The repetition of similar endings of words or even of identical syllables (rime riche) constitutes rhyme, used generally to bind lines together into larger units or to set up relationships within the same line (internal rhyme). Such repetition, as a tour de force, may be the center of interest in a poem, as Southey's "The Cataract of Lodore" and Belloc's "Tarantella," or may play a large part in establishing the mood of a poem, as in Byron's Don Juan."

"The repetition of a complete line within a poem may be related to the envelope stanza pattern, may be used regularly at the end of each stanza as a refrain, or in other ways. The multiple recurrence of a line at irregular intervals as in Catullus' 64th Ode, or the line "Cras a met qui numquam amavit, quique amavit cras a met," which occurs ten times in the 92 lines of the Pervigilium Veneris, illustrates the effect of a repetition of a specific line apart from a set place as furnished by stanzaic structure. Rarely a line may be repeated entire and immediately as a means of bringing a poem to a close, an extension of the method of bringing a sequence of terza rima to a close with a couplet:

And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

(Frost, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening") "

In a single stanza poem, the re-use of a word as its rhyme is to be avoided. I fear the only way that you may prevent this stain upon your poetic ability is to produce further stanzas. In addition, one should write poetry (here, of all places!) for the sheer joy of expression.

This is the opening line to an email I just received. I feel so sorry for this poor guy that I replied with the name of a good psychiatrist. I know all too well what it is like to be laughed at in public toilets, and I know too that a good psychiatrist can fix him right up. (I also included the name of a good grammarian.)

I did this to make Mom proud. I know she's proud of me, so I used Amos's email address.

She has never been proud of fraud, Rapaire; that's the one lesson she tried over and over to teach you, both in and out of public toilets!! "Do not deceive, lie or pretend." I can't count the number of times I watched her haul you off by your left ear, rapping your skull with her thimble, in an effort to get this simple lesson across. Yet here you are quoting Beowulf in the original as though intimate with the tongue. Nay, nay, sirrah, it is never too late. Reform!! Recant!! Repent!! Rethink!! Recast your life in the paths of virtue, I do entreat you!!

Why ever would you think that I am NOT familiar with Old Norse, Anglo-Saxon, Old Irish, and other languages? Simply because I choose to converse in the language of this age? Because you cannot read the Kalevala in the original does not mean everyone cannot do so. I, too, remember Mom pulling you along by the ear (the one that's now the longer of the two), rapping your head sharply with her knuckles and saying, "Just because you can't read whaka-tea tumoto or the Yasa of Chingis Khan doesn't mean that Rapaire can't!"

And I remember cleaning up the blood a few times when you two were arguing and she grabbed you each by an ear and slapped your heads together. Not that Mom abused you as kids or anything, mind you. But it was her own unique way of getting your attention.

You are being repugnantly evasive, sirrah. This, I know full well, is the curse of librarians -- their professional disease. The world becomes but titles, lines and tomes, and the force and flavor of every place is left far behind; to be able to find is as good as to know, and a reference as good as a conversation. For fie, for fie!! I have also sinned in those false pastures, sir, and know the error of my own ways when I see them being scrawled plain by others. Rest assured, your sins are transparent, your soul forgiven, and Mom duly advised. I suggest you stay out very late tonight, though.

I hope the flood was manageable...but you never know when a domestic catastrophe like that will have a silver lining. For us, a whole chain of jammed up plans suspended in no-motion broke loose when a hose section broke and the backspray flooded the bedroom through the window. The repairs forced us to confront renovating the bathroom, and in rapid succession we had the windows replaced, the roof replaced, the exterior stucco and the front yard landscaped, all from the momentum provided by that one catastrophe. So look on the bright side, good Rapaire, if you can but find it.

Well, this means a new bar sink and new faucet set -- installed professionally instead of the slap-dash job that was done by the past owner who put it in. Instead of having the faucet set immediately behind the sink we'll have it in the back left corner, and the sink will be installed in such a way as to maximize the use of the space. The sink will be beige-y enamel on cast iron, too -- NOT stainless steel! The p-trap also seems to have split, so that too will be replaced.

Neither. She turned the water off at the faucet. It was a goose-neck spout that snapped off at wear it joins the faucet block and fortunately the faucet still worked. Which is good because the shut-off cocks were immovable by hand -- we had to get the plumber to do that.

The plumber also fixed the spout so it could be used (with cold water only), which will last until we get back from Alberta (yes, we're going to say "Howdy, Peace!") on the 15th. By then the new parts will be in and we can have them installed.

Money...what's that? Why bother with it? I was born without any and I've spent my life the same way....

Damn, Stilly. See if I EVER invite you to plan a raid with me again. Anyway, Mom, I think I have discovered the special Circle of hell designed for weekend warriors like me. It involves trying to dig a trench for, and installing, sprinklers, right behind a row of close-set hedge trees. If you go wild and bust all the roots the trees die, and you lose. If you don't you have to excavat by hand on your hands and knees among the trunk. In this version of the Inferno, just after you get everything filled in and mulched newly, you test the sprinklers and the joints all blow up and you have to start all over again.

In the real world, of course, it all tests perfectly.

But doing it once was a real taste f the best Lucifer has to offer.

Bon Voyage, Rapaire. Don't check in...until you get home.

And say hello to mah main man, Bruce. He is busting them out on stage today. I know he will make them smile and applaud wildly.

I have glistened.Glittered and salivated at and upon a moon.I have lept a crater to distinguish the fact that you are not me.I listen to the world of which I left for you and find it too revealing to accomplish that,I find you in a dream and love every bit of you.... up.........

Can I name you purple ?I love your lavender hills full of blossoms and coiled flowering pedals with no rainto feel the weight of water just pedal drip.

I shout loudly now because I have forgotten what it was that I was all about too jjjoyously. Dance naked in the rain. I forgot I was there just the other day..........dancing jjjoyously in the rain and it created a wet.............meIt was outstanding, yet wet.It has to be a ridgid formality,A BANQUET OF REALITYa FACINATION OF FALLACYtO BELIEVE THAT YOU have just become... a oneand I have also been... a one......of me.

That isn't the west coast, that is east of the Rockies. Though because California takes that wild eastern swing it may actually be west of you (like Reno). Hmmm. Head due north, and when you get there it looks like Rap will be a teensy tiny bit east of you.

SOrry -- I conflated Alberta and BRitish COlumbia. My mind is weary and my back is sore; the sprinkler circuit is done except for one curmudgeonly threaded connector that has decided to leak. Tonight it shall be chastised, given penance, and made pure in the eyes of Man. Mwahahaha.

Obviously this refers to failure of the late King Farouk to visit his dentist more often, for if he had he would have made it big as a gospel singer. But instead he made a pass at the Queen and made her dentist mad.

More research showed that the "Sons of the dentist" were a group similar to, but not identical with, the "Sons of the Pioneers." They had a big hit ("Swish, spit, the water") in the south of France in the early 1950s but faded into obscurity after they failed to break into the New York folk scene in 1956. The only member of the group left, Bob Zimmerman, currently delivers pizza and soup in Greenwich Village.

A red-letter day! Rapaire has granted me Rightness!! Oh, be still my beating heart!! Calloo, callay!! I am beside myself, which is just as well, as when I get ahead of myself I trip over my own feet. But I am behind me all the way, eh?